I had onlya
few more days in Paris. I didn't want to waste them on stuff that didn't
matter. Life's too short for that. Or looking at it another way, death's
too long.

I went over to Au Rêve.
That means to dream. Elyette was there, as I guess she has been for the
last fifty years. She wears exotic stockings for an older woman and a
curious, friendly smile. Also, she will mix French and English, depending
on the situation. French when you know the words, English—but only
a word or two—when you don't.

A few days ago I had come in
when there was music and ordered "Four Roses" bourbon whiskey.
Don't expect to find that easily in the United States but that is what
you will get, if not Jack Daniels, in France and Spain. It's okay stuff;
I bought a bottle or two in Paris. And if you don't like the whiskey,
you can stare at the label. It's gorgeous. But what Elyette's husband,
Pierre, thought I said I wanted was rosé. I ordered it
with ice, avec les glaçon, but that was not enough to
tip him off. He brought me a nice little wine glass of amber-colored rosé
wine with ice. I didn't say anything but drank it. But Elyette figured
it out.

But this time when I ordered
Four Roses I got it.

C'est possible de monger?
I asked. It was three in the afternoon and I wasn't sure if they were
still serving.

Qui, she says. She
has the assiette available. De fromage ou de viande.
She can see that I don't know the word assiette and holds up
a plate. I order mixte: fromage et viande. Et vin
rouge.

It is all simple, tasty, and
good.

This was on a Saturday. In
the evening I went over to Autor de Midi to hear the
Sebastien Jarrouse Quartet. The group was precise, powerful—formidable.
I was especially impressed with the fine musicianship of alto sax player
Olivier Boge. I was curious to know who actually books the groups at Autor
de Midi, and asked singer Christine Flowers. She said it was Yves. Yves
is the owner but spends most of his time upstairs in the restaurant, I
suppose because it is busy there. Jazz is in the Le Cave a Jazz
below. When he came down later I told him I was not aware he booked all
the music. He smiled proudly. "It is my passion," he said. He
used to be a saxophone player himself.

"The next time I'm in
town let us talk," I said. Auto de Midi, with Le Cave a Jazz, is
one of the best jazz spots in Paris.

On Sunday afternoon I went
over to La Chope des Puces on Rosiers. I thought it might
be a fitting place to drink a toast to Enrico Banducci, who passed away
October 9. It was. It featured guitar music in the style of Django Reinhardt.
La Chope has simple food, mostly le sandwich, and on Sunday a
lot of people hanging out. The nearby Sunday big market draws some of
them.

I was getting ready to come
back to San Francisco, but on Monday I went over to Gilbert Jeune
bookstore on Saint Michel Boulevard to get a copy of Zadig by
Voltaire and Homage to Catalonia by Orwell. To top things off,
I went over to Le Procope to eat lunch. I had had dessert
there; I had also had a drink there at the little bar near the staircase.
But I had not eaten from the main menu. They had some items from the original
Le Procope menu from 1686, such as half a calf brain; but I was not in
the mood for such dishes. I dulled out on Fillet de Boeuf, which
was indeed a dull choice though not a cheap one at 39E. The steak was
small, and though I ordered it a point, it came well done with
a pile of thin green beans and russet potatoes. The vegetables were good
but in no way exceptional. Also, there was little seasoning of interest.
Still, I was dinning where Voltaire used to hang out, as well as Paul
Verlaine and Fredric Chopin, and even Benjamin Franklin was said to have
copy-edited the United States Constitution at Le Procope. I was not unhappy
contemplating the history-rich environment.

So it was I said good-bye to Paris for awhile.

A few days later, on Halloween,
I found myself headed back to San Francisco, or more precisely, South
San Francisco. I had given up my apartment in The City when I went to
Paris, so was planning to stay in South San Francisco until I found another
place or went back to Paris. Since I have an RV that I have practically
never used, I thought this would be a good opportunity to put it to use.
I rented space in Treasure Island RV Park, not on Treasure
Island, which might have been interesting, but in South San Francisco.
But that is not to say that Treasure Island RV Park in South San Francisco
is not without interest. It is in fact a curious place, partly due to
its location.

Located not in the "industrial"
part of the city that everyone driving up 101 to San Francisco is familiar
with, but up in the hills, in what must have once been a beautiful wooded
area and still is to some extent, and above Coma, the
City of Dead with all of its cemeteries, and located also in an area that
is now hard hit with housing development, the park is a curiosity worthy
of study. Did I mention it? It also gets the fog from Pacifica and hosts
a population of seagulls that seems out of place in the woods.

Although I have not studied
them carefully, the park also is home to a number of "characters."
There are huge rigs as big as houses. There are smaller ones, more modest,
that look comfortable. There are also those that have seen better days
and probably better owners. Take the guy in the space I'm living next
to right now. Instead of shades in his window, he hangs clothes that provide
privacy. An old "tree" antenna—mind you, I'm not objecting
to that—rises above the trailer, not a "dish." I have
only talked to him once. It was on the day I "moved in." It
was about three in the afternoon and he was out in his bathrobe.

"I guess I ought to move
my car over," he said coming my way.His old beat-up
Pontiac with gray primer paint and Montana license plate was partly over
in my space.

"Not a problem,"
I said. It wasn't. It was only over a few inches. It also extended about
a foot out in the street, which might be a problem with the park, which
seems to have lots of rules and regulations

"My name's Louis,"
I said. He looked away, toward the hills, and stuck out his hand, as if
reaching in back of him. We shook, almost like two boxers before a fight.
Actually things have been fine but a little loud at times with his TV
blaring at four in the morning. He likes to go out about 10 PM, to the
bars, I suppose, because he comes back around 2 AM, then turns on the
TV so his neighbors can listen too. Sharing in this case is not such a
good thing. But it is tolerable. And some days he even skips the bars
and leaves the TV turned low. Depression? Maybe. Everyone out here looks
like they are on tranquilizers.

I presume he is a "character"
but I have not had much desire to know more. There are others. The shower
in my van is a little cramped so I go over sometimes and use the park
showers. They are borderline disgusting but are quicker than my shower.
Enter another character, a middle-aged Mexican guy. Or maybe I should
say three Mexican guys. The first time I encountered him he was taking
a shower and talking loudly with two other Mexican guys. Or I thought
there were two others. But actually it was just him talking to himself.
Also he does not like a quick shower. He likes to run the water on full
blast for about 40 minutes, or untill all hot water is gone. He is a very
popular guy in the park, as you can imagine. You first walk over to the
showers to see if the Mexican is there or there is evidence, i.e., cold
water, indicating that he has been there recently. Then you decide when
to take your shower.

But I tell myself this is all
temporary and provides motivation to find a new apartment in San Francisco.

Other interesting facets of
the area around Treasure Island RV Park are the huge COSTCO
next door and the Trader Joe's down the way.

I have no objection to Trader
Joe's, although it does kind of sit out in the middle of nowhere at the
moment. Any place that only sells the fun stuff to eat and drink is okay
with me. I take a lot of vitamins anyway. But COSTCO I can do without.
I have never had one right in my face. It is the epitome of American greed
and piggishness. Even the parking lot and the traffic are a problem. You
would think that the road at the side of COSTCO was serving a whole community
but in fact it only functions as ingress and egress to the COSTCO parking
lot. And try crossing the street even with the white pedestrian light.
No self-respecting SUV making a turn after the red light has clearly changed
is going to let you cross. I even saw a guy in a wheel chair get cut off
one day. America the Beautiful? America the Greedy! America the Get Out
of My Way Or I'll Run You Over! What does it mean when you see people
loading pickup trucks with six packs of six packs of toilet paper the
size of a shopping cart? Ditto Pepsi, coke, Coors ... We can't even keep
up with the clean up of our overconsumption. And, hmm, I'm trying to recollect
how many grossly obese people I saw in Paris? Why can't I remember? There
were some, weren't there?

But let's be nice. And there
are some nice things here. Believe it or not, Coma, with its cemetery
economy, is one of them. I have begun to take walks over in Coma. The
closest cemetery is Holy Cross. But you know Colma, don't
you? It is where the dead outnumber the living. It's industry is burying
people and watering lawns and growing and selling flowers. The town motto
is "Great to be alive in Colma." Yes, a touch of humor that
Mark Twain would have appreciated. What else do you do if you're living
with thousands of dead souls roaming all over town at night?

But seriously, I like the place.
Walking there is peaceful, somber. I like that. Too much gaiety, like
too much consumption, can make you sick. And the cemetery is certainly
a good place to sober up your thinking about life. It reminds me of Thornton
Wilder's Our Town. It makes you question your values, if not
COSTCO itself. From the cemetery you can read the names on the stones—Sullivan,
McClarty, McClellan, Peterson—and feel the cool breeze on your neck,
the quiet, then stare over at the the development projects of flimsy houses
that are cropping up—stucco boxes with little care for the design.
And you can feel the stillness of people who were once busy with important
projects that no longer matter in the least. What would they have to say
now?

"Ah, if only I had ..."

"Nothing really mattered
except ..."

"Lord, what was is all
for that I ..."

I don't hear them mention the
names of any stores. I hear only the names of children, friends, lovers.

I was touched by my neighbor
the other day. His daughter came for a visit. She pulled up in a taxi.
I guess this was the yearly visit to "dad." He didn't sound
like his usual gruff self while she was there. When she left, I was astounded.
I heard him say, "Honey, I love you." Has he been walking in
the cemetery too?

But enough for the dead. There
will be plenty of time for the dead, myself included, in the future. On
a Saturday I decided to take BART into The City. BART
is only two blocks, or should I say two busy intersections, away from
Treasure Island RV Park. Strange to have some conveniences, such as BART
and COSTCO and Trader Joe's, located so close to an RV park. It makes
one wonder just how long the RV park will be around. Have real estate
prices not increased sufficiently to make the park a target of developers,
as other lands nearby? Is the RV park an eyesore in an area going upscale?
Or is it just a whole lot more shoppers who don't need parking places?
I don't know. Only the Money People know that. But I wouldn't count on
the Treasure Island RV Park being around forever.

Past two intersections, where
the wait seemed forever after pushing the big round buttons on the metal
poles, I came to the BART station. It seemed that the developer of the
nearby apartment complex had imitated the arch motif used in the architectural
design of the BART station. It was nice to see evidence that the apartment
complex architect was at least cognizant of the environment, even in the
form of rather superficial imitation. There was a certain amount of energy
expressed in the arches, fitting for BART, I suppose. The apartments,
however, were of rather nondescript colors—light browns, pale yellows—and
did not express the dynamics of anything about to spring into motion.

I bought my ticket and entered
the station. It was practically empty. This was not the Paris subway.
I took the elevator down to the platforms. A station announcer gave the
status of the elevators: all were working. Okay, but were the trains on
time? Again, it was almost empty there. As I waited a few people trickled
in, most with earbuds and large plastic bottles of water. I have never
been into the earbuds thing. I guess you can be one place and feel like
you are another. I like water but those big bottles? I'm not sure; they
look heavy. Most of the passengers looked like they were going jogging,
not into The City. The passengers all seemed very young looking, even
the older ones. I'm not sure I want to look so young. There is still some
advantage in being yourself, I think. But perhaps this is just "old
think" on my part.

It was about a 10-minute wait
until a train showed up and it was not awfully clear where it was going.
This was my first time on BART, so I was trying to "experience"
it. Part of that experience seemed to be the art in the stations on the
platform level. Some of it was interesting, such as the old photos of
San Francisco and South San Francisco. The fire department, factories,
a flower show on one of the piers. It was also interesting the way the
images changed according to the viewing angle. This was better, I suppose,
than advertising, as in the Paris subway. But then the Paris subway is
fast. At the same time, it was a little contrived. How could it be otherwise?
It was the product of "planners." It was also a bit sparse.
It's easy to imagine the budgeting battles that probably took place over
the station artwork, the resignation in the end to making do with less.
You see this in other aspects of the station; for instance, in a nice
row of tiles with too few to have the intended effect.

But the BART cars are wide
and the seats comfortable, more like living room furniture than something
you expect to find in a train. They also take up a lot of room, limiting
the number of passengers who get to sit down. They also have a worn look.
How could they look otherwise with that many people sitting on them daily?

The actual trip into The City
is interesting. You pass from South San Francisco to Colma to Daily City
to Balboa Park to Glen Park to 24th street in the Mission to 16 street,
then to downtown San Francisco: Civic Center, Powell and Market, then
Montgomery Street. Some of the drivers call out the stations clearly;
other mumble; still others don't call them out at all. Until you get to
know the system, knowing where you are can be a problem, as the signs
in the stations are almost too small to read. A budget problem? Did all
the money go into old photos and a few tiles? Who knows.

It's kind of a fun ride into
The City over the hills from the south. You get a ride through everyone's
backyard and some of it looks like a shanty town of flimsy construction.
It looks like you could blow it down or a big wave from the nearby coast
could wash it all away. But then you are downtown on Market Street and
Montgomery among the tall buildings, both old and new. In The City there
is excitement. Maybe it is all the deals going on in the financial offices;
maybe it is all the restaurants serving lunch and martinis; maybe it is
the women, at least some of them stylishly dressed, though not so stylish
as Paris, and not so low cut. Wow, Paris, you are something. Forget political
correctness and sexism. If it gets his attention, wear it. In San Francisco,
the big water bottle, as if one is going on a hike, the healthy lunch,
as if flavor were a vice, prevail too much. Women are women but they are
ready to box your ears if you say the wrong things. Be careful, Harry,
boxed ears hurt. Maybe better preface that remark. Or not say it a all.

But enough for careful thinking.
I headed straight for Club 21 in the Tenderloin. It has
been three months. It was packed with the usual down and outers but I
found a spot at the bar. Frank poured the Jack Daniels and refused to
take my money. Nice to be back and have someone show that he cares.

I went over to the big window
that faces Taylor Street and set my drink down on the counter below the
window. I looked across the street, then up on the corner of Turk and
Taylor. There was the usual stream of dudes passing the window. All seemed
to be glassy-eyed and on a mission. At the top of the building I saw a
well lit room with chandeliers. It surprised me but maybe it shouldn't
have. The Tenderloin is full of contrasts. You have to keep your eyes
open and see it as it is. The guy next to me said it was owned by a corporation,
meaning, I suppose, that you could have a half-way house on the first
floor and a banquet room at the top—if it made money. Anyway, he
wasn't surprised. What surprised him was that Little Joe's
was closed. He had walked down from Hyde Street to get some meat balls.
"Ah, yes, the meat balls," I said. I know meat balls; I have
even been a worshiper at times. What better proof of a loving god than
the meatball? Try that on your congregation, Monsignor, and you will have
believers! Or fresh, crispy French bread and wine. But there had been
a fire a Little Joe's, so no meat balls. Thank god I hadn't been thinking
about meat balls all day. I had only spent the afternoon with ghosts at
a cemetery, then got the urge to drink Jack. Then Jack turned out to be
free. No complaints from my department. We would let this day pass as
one of the better ones. It was like au rêve, like a dream.